


Living in His Shadow

by MarisFerasi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Turned Into Vampire, M/M, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is "wrong" with John Watson. Can Sherlock figure it out? And will he want John to stay when he does? Mycroft is the "Snape" in this, just FYI (aka the bad guy that you want to stab, turns out the be the good guy, etc)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter 1

It was the perfect hiding place. The one place he was guaranteed to never be found. Perhaps the only way he was safe. For a time. Always only for a time.

For now, John was in a very good position.

The good doctor was currently stood in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, watching his eccentric flat mate run a series of experiments on pieces of a cadaver that he’d taken from the mortuary at St Bart’s. John wrinkled his nose at the fingers, ignoring the curl of his lip as he turned away.

“Sherlock, what precisely are you looking for?” he asked carefully, hoping to find out why there were not only fingers on the table but an ear in the sugar bowl and a fresh jar of eye balls in the freezer. Sherlock threw a condescending glance over his shoulder at the smaller man.

“I’m simply running test to see a myriad of different ideas that op into my head, John, get used to it.” John sighed, making his way with his cuppa into the living room and sinking into his red chair. Nothing in the newspaper seemed interesting, so he moved to open his laptop and type on their latest case.

As John typed, he silently thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock refused to believe in the even vaguely supernatural. The case on the Hound of Baskerville had almost broken that in him, and it would have meant moving on for his favorite sidekick. He very much did not want to start a new life just yet. He rather liked living next to Sherlock. Living in shadow was far from new for him, so living in someone else’s shadow was only an easier way to get by.

The detective in question grumbled as his phone pinged, demanding that John get up and fetch his phone for him. It was on the table at his elbow.

“Read it to me,” the younger man sighed, not taking his eyes off the scopes of the microscope, a slide having captured his attention completely.

“It says ‘got a case, seems weird, you might appreciate. Grisly, come at once. 2373 Northumberland Street apt 32 –Lestrade.’ Are you going to take it?" John asked, looking out the window. It was dark. He was hungry, having hoped all day for a quiet night that he could go for a walk, alone.

“Yes. Don’t answer him, I’ll show up there in a bit.” Sherlock looked up at John, brow furrowing. “Do you not want me to?” he asked, showing an odd amount of concern. John furrowed his brow in return, bristling.

“No, I um...I was just hoping for a quiet night is all,” he sighed, turning back to the table to put Sherlock’s phone down before he wandered off to find his shoes and shooting coat.    

“Hello, Lestrade.” He heard Sherlock’s voice echoing down the hall, rumbling baritone attempting to be quiet. John paused, his shoe half on his foot. “I don’t think I can come tonight, unless it is particularly necessary?” Another pause. “Then send the report and the body to Molly, I’ll look into it in the morning.” The click of Sherlock shutting his phone made John smile.  He finished putting his things on anyway, determined to go out and return before Sherlock knew he was gone. It was usually pretty easy when the younger man was wrapped up in his hobbies. However disturbing they were.

The doctor walked out into the main area, throwing his coat on and patting down his pockets. He felt eyes on him and turned around.

“Where are you going? I just ditched a case because you wanted to stay in!” he fussed.

“I didn’t say that I was staying in, I said I wanted a quiet night. I need to run out for a minute; I’ll be right back.” The lie was pathetic, and Sherlock saw right through it, but he shrugged it off and left anyway. As John walked down the stairs and out the door he could feel the lingering thought form Sherlock’s mind following him like a vice, wondering. Sherlock never could leave a good mystery unsolved. John hoped desperately that he’d leave this one alone, before it broke them both.

 

Sherlock moved from his place on the stool in the kitchen, running across the living room to the window. He wondered terribly what John was up to. The older man had been unbearably clingy lately, almost drowning Sherlock in affection as if he felt like the younger man was the only thing keeping him afloat. Sherlock shuddered, peeking out the window onto the wet street below. John was walking across, ducking into an alley almost a block down. The detective’s eyes narrowed. He rolled his eyes and went to get his great coat.

The game was on.


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gives Sherlock a case

Sherlock went out, diving down the same alley way that he’d just seen John go into. The detective could feel the pull in his abdomen at the thought of the chase, his curiosity knowing no bounds of mere danger or stupidity when it came to solving the impossible. He continued into the dark, stepping lightly, keeping to the shadows. He’d left his coat behind on a second thought, not willing to have the rustling behind him as he tracked a tracker. He was in nothing but sweat pants and an old ratty t-shirt; lounging clothes. John had been to enticing a target for him to bother with getting dressed; the head start that would have given would have been impossible to catch.

The younger man found the older about three streets away. Sherlock froze when his mind processed what he was seeing.

It looked like John was kissing someone, had the other man pinned up against the stone wall of a flat and everything. Sherlock’s stomach lurched. _Wasn’t that supposed to be me?_ He thought, a split second before his mask slid back into place. He slid further into the shadow and observed.

Upon further inspection, he noticed that John wasn’t really kissing the person, but rather their neck. And the other male seemed to like it. They were moaning a bit and writhing, fists clutching the elbows of John’s favorite shooting jacket. The old army veteran had one hand cupping the man’s head, holding it a bit to the side, the other planted on the wall behind them. He face was hidden by the man’s neck, but he was facing Sherlock.

When the caress broke, Sherlock had to blink twice to clear the image from his reddened vision. What the hell was this emotion?

Fuck! If John wanted to go on snogging people in public then he could do it without Sherlock! He for one was not interested, if this was what John thought of in their “quiet nights” without the case. The detective left the scene, thinking of hailing a cab and going to Northumberland Street anyway. John would never know, he was too busy finding other people to be with than him.

No. with a heavy sensation in the pit of his stomach, Sherlock headed back to Baker Street, to hole himself in his room until he simply had to leave it. He stopped along the way to buy three packs of cigarettes and did just that. Went to his room, locked the door, and opened the window. He was going to sit on the ledge and chain smoke until he or John broke down that door. And it wasn’t going to be him.

John came home about half an hour later, wet from the drizzle that had interrupted his walk. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, having apparently locked himself in his room for the evening. John shrugged and flipped on the telly, turning it to BBC One and finding some filth to watch for a bit. He wasn’t quite tired yet, but the meal would have slowed him down. He’d be tired soon.

He woke a few hours later to a bit of shuffling, and looked around in the blackness to see Sherlock walking around in only a set of navy briefs. His brow furrowed, the question on the tip of his tongue when the younger man turned and looked at the chair. He couldn’t see John as well as John could see him, which was perfectly, but he knew that John was there. The older man had the feeling that Sherlock had just flipped off the TV.

They sat there for the span of a few breaths before Sherlock snorted frustratedly and stomped into his bedroom, once again slamming the door. John was puzzled, but the habits of Sherlock Holmes were far from ordinary or predictable. That was why he preferred living here, wasn’t it? He didn’t have to act normal; Sherlock would do the weird things and he could hide behind that flawless façade. Perfect.

The sleuth went back into his room and lit another cigarette. Surely John could smell them? Why wasn’t he coming in and snatching it away from him? Maybe he didn’t care anymore.

“No, that couldn’t be it,” he mumbled, chewing on his lip once before sucking the tar back into his lungs. Sweet pain, he thought, letting the smoke sit in his chest for a moment. John had cared about him and his habits through the stupidest and the most promising of girlfriends. Why would some guy in an alley make him more distracted? It wouldn’t. Sherlock sighed. Pressing the lit end of the smoke to his window ledge. He almost aimed it at is forearm, but John would see and get angry.

He did so many things for that man.

So many boring things.

~0~0~

The next morning, Sherlock woke next to his mobile on the bed, having slept through the entire night rather oddly. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked at the text. It was from Lestrade; a new case. Body found in an alley, please come at once. No blood, no wounds. How delightful.

He got out of bed and stretched, padding through his room to gather clothing and call up to John on his way to the shower. To his surprise, the man was already in the bathroom, shaving.

“Morning,” John said, dragging the blade down his skin, nicking off tiny hairs in its wake. The younger man pulled face, rubbing his cheeks again. He would shave tomorrow.

“We have a case a few streets away. Body, no blood, no wounds. Male,” he narrowed his eyes, thinking of the address Lestrade had sent him. It was close to where John had been snogging that fellow. Hatred roiled deep within his belly. “Please go, I need to shower,” he growled, pushing John and his razor out of the bathroom entirely. John stood on the other side of the door, dumbstruck. He looked at the closed door for a second before he heard to lock click, and the sound of the shower curtain being drawn shut.

“Sherlock, can’t I shave while you’re in there? It’s not like I’ll look!” he called, getting no reply. He didn’t really expect one. The man had woken up obviously in a mood. Ugh. He got a mug of hot water and went down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson’s level, using the small mirror in the hall to finish his shave.  He was glad for a moment that Sherlock was in a mood, which usually meant that he didn’t solve the case straight away. Not that he would, anyway. John had gotten lazy on this one. Well, a mix of lazy and tired of having his flat mate up his arse bored all the time, destroying the flat and laying waste to everything John wrote and admired.

He’d given the man a body.

~0~0~

Sherlock stood over the man, face wrinkled in disgust.

Forty-three, cheating on his wife, three kids, low income. He had halitosis, back hair and probably Iranian or Syrian ancestry.

This… _this_ was the man John had been kissing? _WHAT?_ Sherlock felt his hands clench into fists unwittingly as he knelt next to the body. Greg had been right, he admitted begrudgingly. No wounds, not even a scratch, and yet he had no blood. Sherlock put a gloved hand on the man’s shoulder, hauling him up so that he could see his back side. Nope, no blood pooling there. He’d been found half-under the dumpster. He never would have been stuffed under there, for he was fat and the dumpster only had about a twenty-centimeter gap under it. Right then. Someone would have had to have lifted it.

How did the man wind up dead after snogging John in the alley? Certainly his half-crippled little army doctor couldn’t have drained is blood without any marks and then lifted a trash bin on him? Sherlock shook the thought out of his head. Absurd. He chanced a glance back at the man in question. John was standing there, hand behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels just like he had the first crime they solved together, looking around innocently enough. The night that he had been the killer.

The sleuth’s eyes narrowed. He stood up, facing Lestrade.

“Get the body to Molly’s ward, I’ll look over it later. Nothing to report right now, except that whoever did it was strong and has type o-negative blood welled up somewhere. His wallet is in his pocket for ID, it wasn’t a robbery.” The detective inspector looked at Sherlock, shocked for a second. For the first time, he actually didn’t have the answer immediately? Sherlock snapped off his gloves and strode away, past John and into the main street.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to get naughty.

# Once back at Baker Street, Sherlock slammed the door behind the two of them and flopped into his grey chair. After a minute or so of fiddling about with the old Hobbs, John came and sat across from him in the red chair. He balanced his cuppa on his knee, having brought it and some biscuits on to the room with him. Sherlock was in a thinking mood, and thus was deathly silent. John felt it was high time to indulge on a bit of a snack while he waited.

# “Did you kill that man, John?” the detective asked, making the good doctor pause for half a breath with a biscuit halfway between his tea cup and his mouth. “Don’t bother answering, that was good enough.” Sherlock clasped his hands to the arm rests of his chair, biting his bottom lip like he did when he was on the verge of an unpleasant discovery.

# “How?” Silence. John wasn’t even breathing—not that he had to. But Sherlock didn’t need to know that bit quite yet. If ever.

# He cleared his throat. “I’m not really…inclined to tell you.” John admitted. If he said that he didn’t do it, Sherlock would cite ten things he missed on the site of the dump and make him look stupid before demanding the real answer. This was easier, in a sense. Those pale eyes narrowed on him, worse than daggers.

# “What did I miss?” he asked instead, going back to dunking his digestive. They were at their best when soaked in PG Tips, he had discovered. Delicious.

# “First, you were making the same face on this scene that you were on our first scene together. Do you remember?” Sherlock asked, crossing his legs. He was getting impatient; why didn’t people just admit things? Although he did love the puzzle, and it made him even giddier that _John_ of all people was the one who put the body there, strange as it seemed to admit.

# John sighed. “When I shot the cabbie?” Sherlock nodded. “So? It’s my face, I can make it look like I want to,”

# “No, John. _Some_ people can control their face flawlessly. You are not one of those. You looked like you were trying to play innocent, swaying back and forth on your feet like that. Foolish. Tell me _how_ ,” he demanded, letting his voice drop a register. John hesitated for a microsecond in his move to set his mug down, his submissive side kicking in. _Good_. Give up the goods. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed again, watching every breath like a hawk.

# “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, just go and figure it out yourself,” John shook his head, crossing his legs and picking up his laptop. Sherlock froze, a half-snarl curling his lip.

#  _What about that MAN in the alley?_ He wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs, rage and stomp around until John finally caved. But he didn’t. John gave him the puzzle; he needed to figure it out. He launched out of the grey chair.

# “Going out,” he barked, gathering his coat up and throwing his scarf around his neck as he paraded out of the flat. John sighed and nestled back into the armchair, certain that Sherlock was going back to the crime scene now. Good.

# [oOo]

Sherlock stood in the alley, arms at his sides, just looking. Eyes flicking everywhere, over the walls, the dumpster under which the stain from the adipose of the body still marked the cement. Nothing seemed to fit. He calculated that the dumpster, even empty, would take a minimum of two men twice John’s physical stature to life, let alone with it being half-full of rubbish. Impossible.

After you rule out the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be true.  He squeezed his eyes shut against the thought.

There had to be something…something that John was hiding. Was he impossibly strong? How could that be true? He’d had a hell of a time getting his suitcase up the stairs when he moved in, how could an eighty kilo man life a two thousand kilo dumpster enough to wedge a body in, one handed? He had to be strong…but even then the span of human genetics only allows for so much alteration.

Could it be supernatural? He scoffed at himself, alone in the alley. How stupid. But he still bit his lip, wondering.

What was eerily strong, needed blood, and could blend in perfectly with society?

He couldn’t even think the word, it was so stupid. 

Sherlock Holmes, perfector of truths and logic, could not be tricked into thinking that his roommate was the impossible.

A vampire.

He walked back to the main road, catching a cab to the flat.

Once there, he threw himself back into the grey chair, refusing to look at John who was in the exact same place as he was three hours ago. Except asleep, a ray of sunshine laying across his face on the cold winter afternoon.

Vampires can’t handle sun….Sherlock shut down the thought before he ran with it, blinking hard to get past it.

 _However improbable…_. No.

He had an idea. John knew that Sherlock was on a case, wouldn’t be expecting physical contact. The detective smirked, shucking his suit jacket and shoes before unbuttoning the top three buttons of his black shirt and moving over to the red chair. He was lucky that John had narrow hips; else the chair would be too small for this. Not that they’d never tried it before. Sherlock took the laptop off the doctor’s lap, setting it gently on the table without a sound.

Next, he moved back to John, standing in front of him, hands flexing open and closed a few times before he got up the nerve. He still wasn’t exactly comfortable with his gangly body, let alone rubbing it all over someone else. He took a deep breath, hitching his shins up between John’s thigh and the arm of the chair on either side, so he was straddling the smaller man. John woke with a start, jumping lightly as Sherlock settled in his lap, blinking away bleary eyes.

“Erm…hello?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock through his lashes. He licked his lips rapidly, like he did when he was flustered. Sherlock felt his own pulse elevate slightly. He liked John better when he was agitated. He was…harsher. He gripped tighter and hit harder.

 _Oh, yes John, show me some of that supernatural strength,_ his mind purred, influencing his hands which cupped John’s face, leaning down for a kiss that left the older man blinking and staring stupidly back at him. John’s eyes were fixed on his mouth, floating down to his exposed chest every now and then, waiting ever so patiently.

“Figure out the scene, did you?” he asked quietly, as if he wasn’t sure that Sherlock wanted to bring it up.

“No, need a distraction,” the younger man murmured against John’s neck, nibbling at the soft skin there, nipping hard where it met his shoulder. John jumped, gasping slightly. In the same move, the detective ground down on John’s lap, rubbing against his erection just so.

“Just a distraction?” John mused, letting his hands settle peaceably on Sherlock’s bony hips. He was working little tight figure eights on the doctor’s lap, and it was destroying the man’s mentality. His breath shook a bit as he tried to focus, but just then the younger man slid down to his knees between John’s own, trailing his fingers over John’s nipples through the shirt. A low growl slid from between his teeth before he bit it back, pushing his head into the back of the chair and lifting his hips as Sherlock dug his fingers under the waistband of his jeans. Insistent little bugger.

Sherlock bit his lower lip, letting it slide out from between his teeth as he felt John’s hot gaze fall back on him. John liked watching Sherlock do almost anything, especially when it involved touching. Letting his eyes flick back up to meet John’s much darker blue ones, Sherlock managed to drag his trousers and pants down over his bum, cock jutting out beautifully up against his stomach. He fisted the organ for a few strokes before licking his lips and swallowing it whole. John bucked up at the sensation, never getting over his partner’s ability to deep-throat like a porn star.

Sherlock worked the older man until he felt the pulse on his tongue, getting ready to come. Then he pulled back, not touching John in any way at all, his hands on his lap, folded neatly. John looked baffled for a second before clenching his jaw.

“Tell me, John,” he growled, inching his hands closer, walking his fingers up John’s leg toward his crotch.

“No, Sherlock, I told you to figure it out. It’s your toy now,” John groaned, watching those fingers slow down on his knee.

“Oh, speaking of toys,” the younger Holmes said, getting up onto his feet and adjusting himself in his trousers. “I think I’ll go find one. Unless you decide to play nice, that is? In which case you can do _whatever_ you want to me after you tell,” he paused, halfway to his room to look back at John expectantly, not bothering to fondle himself in any way. John’s mouth was already watering just thinking about him naked. But the doctor hadn’t moved an inch, cock  straining for another touch.

“Actually, I think I’ll go finish in the shower, thanks for getting me started though, love.” Then he bloody _winked_ and waltzed upstairs to his bathroom. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot for a minute, not believing that John had just actually walked away. Should he be hurt? No…maybe? He grimaced and stomped into his room, slamming the door shut and throwing himself on the bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock figures it out, and smut proceeds it. naughtiness!

“Oh, yes John, just there,” Sherlock moaned, biting his nails into the doctor’s skin. He bit his lower lip, dragging his teeth over it to plump it up, eyes firmly shut as John thrust on top of him. The doctor was having a hard time concentrating, and it was anyone’s guess why.

Sherlock had managed to get him into bed after no small amount of coercion the next morning. John was far from an early riser, but the detective had snuggled into his bed bright and early pressing kisses absolutely everywhere before John rolled and pinned him to the mattress with his hips. John sensed that he had never slept. Again. That made three nights this week; _god_ he was getting to be worse than John himself. The detective in question was writhing to and fro, moaning as much as he could, and exposing his neck as much as possible. John licked his lips but otherwise kept his mouth firmly shut.

 _Bad_ _idea_ , he kept musing to himself. If only it would work. He wanted very badly to bite Sherlock, for being a general prick _and_ because he was tormenting the old army vet at the moment. John was sure that Sherlock knew; he just wasn’t willing to quite admit it to himself yet.

“God, John, I want you to take me _hard_. _Own_ me, make me _believe_ it!” Sherlock groaned, pounding his fist on the bed beside them before slapping his long hand back over John’s ribs. The doctor smirked.

True to form, John thrust up, meeting Sherlock’s prostate. He bent his head and allowed himself a small taste...just nibbling lightly at Sherlock’s flawless skin with his front two teeth and bottom lip was almost enough to put him over the edge. A real bite and he would explode. Sherlock shifted, winding his hands under the pillow over his head, opening the amount to vulnerability he was showing to new levels. Now John had free range of his whole chest and throat. Totally open.

“Hurt me, John, _please_ ,” he begged, thrashing his head around.

 He was being tested after all.

Well, two could play at that game.

John reared back so that he was sitting on his heels and picked up an ankle in each hand, unwrapping them from around his waist to drape over his shoulders. Sherlock was watching him warily. Good. He wrapped a hand around each slender thigh and pulled hard, matching Sherlock’s bum up to his hips. Rather than thrusting, he was fully seated, simply grinding into Sherlock in small movements, right against his prostate. The younger man gasped, clapping a hand over his mouth as his eyes flew wide.

“John!” he cried, wriggling to get away from the assault on the oversensitive gland. John smiled wickedly and held him in place with one hand latched over his left hip bone. Super-strength, indeed. After he felt that Sherlock was no longer going to try to get away, the doctor let go of his hip to squeeze the base of his cock, staving off the inevitable orgasm that he could smell boiling under the detective’s skin.

“Ugh!” the other man cried, reaching down to try in vain to swat John’s hand away. The older man turned his head, ignoring Sherlock as he pressed a kiss to the man’s ankle, biting lightly at the skin there. Sherlock froze, his breath locked in his chest. John smirked against his skin and repeated it to the other ankle over his other shoulder. In such a manner he worked all the way up Sherlock’s legs, as far as he could bend his body down and reach, that is, until Sherlock was a quivering mess beneath him, begging at the top of his lungs to be bitten harder or slapped or _anything_ to get John to let go of his cock and let him come!

“John, I said hurt me, not tickle me to death!” Sherlock groaned, bucking his hips in an attempt to get the doctor’s fingers from being clamped around his member. It didn’t work.

“Sherlock,” he grumbled, low and deep. Sea-glass eyes snapped to his own dark blue ones instantly. John let go of is cock, but didn’t touch it further. He maintained the shallow thrusts and grinding into Sherlock’s arse, angling up at his prostate just so. “Come for me,” he demanded. Sherlock bit his lip hard and shuddered once, going still, a thick puddle forming on his flat belly. John smirked and pushed his thighs into the puddle, adjusting the position.

He sought his own release by drawing almost the whole way out and thrust home in rapid succession, making sure that his own iliac crests ground against Sherlock’s bony ischium. He’d have bruises, by god, and have a hard time sitting down tomorrow. Probably for the rest of the week. Assuming he could get out of this bed anytime soon.

John shoved in deep and hard, pulsing a few times before he felt himself release hot and deep in Sherlock’s arse. Good; he’d have fun digging that out in the shower later. After the burn set in, that is. Sherlock groaned and lay there limp and tender; utterly used. He tried to scowl at John and failed miserably, only managing to halfway quirk one eyebrow. Ugh. John withdrew and rolled off, slackening into the mattress as he caught his breath for a few seconds.

“Come here,” the doctor sighed, rolling to his side and tugging Sherlock along with him, nestling the scrawnier man into his chest. John liked being the bigger spoon; a point that Sherlock made fun of [only teasingly] because of their obvious size difference and the ridiculousness that it would look like to an outsider to see such a short man curled around his long and lanky frame., John would gruffly declare that he didn’t care, and would only squeeze Sherlock tighter to him, but secretly, the detective did love being coddled more than being the one _doing_ the coddling. The younger man was pouting, arms crossed. He tried not to laugh and ended up failing, covering his mouth as he giggled all the way to the floor. Sherlock had pushed him off the bed! He growled and crawled back up, peppering the piteous younger man with kisses until he squealed, kicking his way out of the bed and striding to the shower, back straight as a rod and a slight limp in his gait. John rolled his eyes and watched him go.

Sherlock stood in his bathroom, waiting on the shower water to heat up while he chewed on his lower lip. _What else can I do? I refuse to ask such as stupid question aloud. “Thanks for the tea, darling. Oh, John by the way, do you secretly want to suck my blood when we fall asleep in each other’s arms? No? How about when I’m being a prat?”_ How utterly stupid. He shook his head and climbed into the shower, letting the hot water relax his overworked muscles. A few minutes later, John knocked quietly on the door and came in.

“Want some company?” the doctor asked, peeking in behind the shower curtain. Sherlock glowered at him but relented, moving under the spray a bit further to let the older man in behind him. He needed to get John’s seed out of him, but didn’t relish the idea of working himself back open just yet; he was still tender.

That was barely a thought in his head compared to the trouble over John. He still had to figure out the crime scene; what the devil was he supposed to tell Lestrade? He couldn’t just ignore the body; the inept detective would hound him for ages over it.

He had to think of something, quickly.

*********

John sensed Sherlock’s thought track and decided to head him off. He needed to avoid questions right now; he still didn’t want to move. Surely Sherlock would be revolted and force him out of Baker Street as soon as he learned the truth, or heard it, since he was already sure to know to some degree. He stepped a bit closer to the wily man, wrapping his arms around him loosely.

“Here, let me help,” John murmured, turning his lover around and tucking his head under Sherlock’s chin. He pressed a fervent kiss in the hollow of the taller man’s throat. Sherlock tensed a bit, but ultimately relaxed into John’s arms as he felt wet hands sliding gently down his back side to cup his arse. John was going to open him up and clean him out; better than having to do it _himself_ , he mused.

John trailed a finger down Sherlock’s crease, letting his forefinger rest against the recently abused pucker before he pressed lightly, letting the digit slip in. Sherlock whimpered very quietly and swayed into John’s body, giving in to the sensations.

Did he really care what John was? If his assumptions were correct…would it make a difference? John had never shown him any undue violence, certainly not any he hadn’t asked for either literally or deserved by way of his actions. John would never hurt him, he decided, and therefore it shouldn’t make any kind of real difference if he were a vampire. Which he wasn’t, because those didn’t exist.

Sherlock hated ambiguities.

John now had two fingers sunk back into his wet heat, and the detective stilled, letting the doctor stretch him enough to let the semen leak back out. He whined, getting hard again, but kept his erection mostly to himself. If you discount the fact that it was currently trying to dig its way through John’s hip bone.

John laughed gently, pulling back a bit and turning Sherlock so that he faced the wall, his back to John. The doctor placed kisses down the taller man’s spine, leaving him trembling. He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

“John?”

“Mmm. Yes Sherlock?” the doctor pulled his face back from Sherlock’s shoulder blade, where he had been tracing the line of the bone with his tongue.  He rubbed his newly budded erection against the crease of Sherlock’s arse, rutting gently, withdrawing his fingers.

“If…if I knew who… _what_ you were…” John froze for a half-second, his breath catching in his chest.

 _NO. He couldn’t…this can’t happen,_ his mind screamed. John decided with what part of his brain wasn’t whirring with escape routes to wait Sherlock out. No sense in incriminating yourself before you know the charges.

He remained silent.

“Would you leave?” The younger man barely breathed the question. He couldn’t stand the thought of not having John around… _his_ _John_. He’d become too attached. Sherlock held his breath; John had stopped moving, was standing there, seemingly dumbstruck.

“I…um.” He said lamely. John didn’t know what to do! Was Sherlock saying that he _wanted_ him to leave? Surely he wouldn’t want a monster living next to him…? “Would you want me to?” he asked, equally as terrified and quiet. He flinched as Sherlock spun around top face him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they love each other, guys. duh. Sherlock asks to get bit.

John wrapped a towel around his waist, unable to have this kind of conversation in the shower, naked. He went and sat on Sherlock’s bed, waiting patiently. His ears pricked as he heard the water shut off and cautious steps across the cold tile. The younger man peeked out of the bathroom and padded onto the carpet to sit on the bed beside John.

“John--”Sherlock started, but was cut off by a hand up from his doctor.

“Sherlock, be quiet,” John whispered, not quite trusting his voice yet. He only half expected the eccentric younger man to talk anyway. He was surprised when Sherlock actually remained silent, head bowed slightly and eyes glued to John’s ear. John shifted, facing Sherlock and making the younger man look at him fully.

“Sherlock,” he started, twisting his fingers. He sighed, reaching up and rubbing his eyes hard as he formulated the words that he wanted to say to his partner. Nothing came up, so he opted to wing it.

“Tell me…what…you think you know,” he began, finally locking eyes with the younger man. Sherlock squirmed, biting his lip before he answered.

“I know that you killed that man. I saw you…in the alley… _kissing_ him. I… why did you do that?” John clenched his eyes shut.

“I wasn’t kissing him, Sherlock. I’d never do that to you. Keep going,” he pushed.

“You…when I saw you at the scene the next day you were so obvious about it. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that you’d killed him. The problem was how you got rid of the blood and where it went. The easiest solution was that you drained him and dropped the body back off, but then how did you get him under the dumpster? Even drained he was still obese. Then the stupidity started flowing--”

“ _That_ …what do you mean by that, Sherlock?” John asked, twisting his fingers unintentionally. God, he didn’t want to have to leave. He hoped that Sherlock got it wrong, but somehow he knew that the younger man wouldn’t he already knew; he just had to say it out loud to accept it.  

Sherlock grimaced, not meeting John’s eyes yet again. He felt foolish just thinking it…could he say it aloud? “I—well the only thing that came to mind was that you could be a…a vampire,” he stammered, looking back at his boyfriend through fringed lashes. John had frozen on the bed, not breathing, nothing. “But I decided that it would be ridiculous…surely these things don’t exist? But it fits the facts; blood gone, no wounds, under a several tonne dumpster, nothing else could match without special equipment or aid in some way, and I knew that you were alone,” he sped up, trying to explain himself before John could get angry. It didn’t seem to work. “Are…are you?” he asked in a small voice. He wasn’t afraid of John, like he’d thought earlier, John had never outright hurt him (excepting the few times that he’d either deserved it or asked for it, outside of the bedroom of course) so therefore it really shouldn’t matter. But he was… _curious_.

“Sherlock--”

“Just tell me, John. You’re not moving anywhere, I’m not going to let you so stop worrying. I just…have to know.”

“Then yes, I am. What else do you want to know?” John shrugged, raising his hands and letting them drop back into his lap, totally finished. If Sherlock needed to know after how long he’d kept it secret, how long he’d tip-toed around, then so be it. He could have it.

Sherlock sat still for a moment, taken aback. He hadn’t expected John to give in so easily, not with something like this. Suddenly a thousand questions flooded his mind, demanding answers as they kicked around, vying for position in line to be asked.

Instead of asking, he launched himself at John, tackling the older man to the bed effortlessly.

John tensed, sensing the movement a split second before Sherlock made it, before immediately allowing his body to relax and take on the extra weight of the man he loved. Sherlock straightened out above him, pressing his lips to John’s fervently before adding the pressure.

Well this was unexpected. He’d thought that the first thing out of Sherlock’s mouth would be a request to see his teeth or a demonstration of some kind, but no, he’d literally tackled him with kisses, hands trailing under the towel now to drop it to the floor.

“Sherlll--” he managed between assaults, but to no avail. The younger man rolled them, sliding his hands all over John as the doctor laid on top of him.

“John, I love you.” Sherlock kitten-licked at his collar bone, hiding his eyes. “Do you believe me?” he asked in a quiet voice. John stilled and looked down at him.

He put a finger under Sherlock’s chin and lifted his face up so that their eyes met. “I believe you,” he murmured, leaning down to capture those perfect lips once more. “I love you Sherlock, and I don’t ever want to move. That’s why I was so scared to let you find out, but I guess part of me just let it happen anyway. I gave you that body as a –gah!” he was cut off by a rather large hand closing over his hip and throwing him upwards, so that he sat on Sherlock’s chest now. His erection was bobbing about over the younger man’s face eagerly, craving to sink into that flawless mouth. He tugged his length a few times and did just that, angling downwards into the detective’s eager heat, swallowing him down whole.

Sherlock’s hands roamed over John’s arse, squeezing and molding the cheeks in those large hands, swatting playfully before he himself was swatted in retribution. Pale eyes fixed on dark blue and John felt that he was winning a losing battle. Sherlock would let him come then he’d flip him over and bugger the hell out of him, leaving them both exhausted. He couldn’t wait, pressing himself deeper down Sherlock’s throat, chasing that ecstasy.

And that’s exactly how it happened.  

The thinner man swallowed John’s load happily, suckling the tip for the last drop before rolling them so that he lay on John’s belly quite amiably. He swirled his tongue into John’s mouth, tracing over his front teeth with the barest hint of tongue before sliding away, down to his collar bones and into the hollow of his throat. John writhed a bit, giving Sherlock the show he knew he loved.

“John,”

“Please, Sherlock, fuck me.” John begged, just a bit, just to throw Sherlock over the cliff he was already standing on. With a heady groan the younger man reached to the bedside table, procuring the lube. He activated the tingle additive a bit by rubbing it between his fingers, pressing two lightly to his beloved undead’s puckered entrance. John held his breath as the two sank in, up to the second knuckle, squirming a bit to ease the burn. The tingle helped, as did his natural penchant for self-healing, so after the initial breach he was fine, writhing about just as much as before, even pressing down onto those fingers to drive the long thin digits in deeper.

“I’m ready, please,” the doctor gasped again, reaching down to tug helplessly at Sherlock’s wrist. The younger man complied, reaching for the condom he’d laid beside John’s hip on the bed. He rolled it on, adding a bit more lube before positioning himself and driving in a bit fast. He was testing the waters, and John knew it immediately. He clenched his jaw at the intrusion but once Sherlock started thrusting truly, he melted.

“God, you have…such a perfect cock,” John breathed, throwing his head back into the pillows as his hands sought purchase on the taller man’s sides. He settled for ribs, and clenched there, holding on for dear life. Sherlock’s length was just right for grinding his prostate every other thrust, and he did just that, tormenting John to the fullest as he sought his own release.

“John,” Sherlock paused, quirking an eyebrow. He’d caught John licking his lips and teeth more than once just now. “If you bit me, would I die? Or become like you?” he asked tentatively, not wanting to ruin the moment.

“No,” John started, not really willing to tempt himself with that idea. It was just curiosity, not—

“Bite me when I’m about to come, I want to see what it feels like.” He started thrusting again, much harder this time, snapping those bony hips forward as hard as he could to drive them both wild. John held on, practically screaming as he drew Sherlock down so that their chests brushed. He sucked a bruise on the younger man’s throat, right over his carotid where his scent was the most divine. He could feel Sherlock’s orgasm approaching, and licked a stripe up his neck form collar bone to ear. Sherlock shuddered, hips faltering in their rhythm before he started to come, john pushed up a bit and flipped them so that he was straddling the younger man, sinking his teeth into Sherlock’s throat effortlessly, like a knife through a juicy peach. It shoved Sherlock over the edge into the orgasm of a lifetime, and he clutched uselessly at John’s elbows as the older man milked him of blood and semen thoroughly.

John drew back as his own orgasm dribbled to a close, making a mess of Sherlock’s perfectly clean torso. They’d need another shower.

“God that was…that…”

“I know,” john muttered. Licking his lips. Sherlock had the most…peculiar and perfect taste in the world. Not that he’d been unable to _not_ notice his smell, which was perfect enough, but dear _lord_ this was delicious! “How did it feel, then?”

“It felt like you’d injected me with adrenaline and melatonin at the same time, with a more than healthy dose of endorphins. I wanted to push you away and draw you closer; I barely felt the pain at all…was that you?” John nodded. Sherlock slapped a hand to his neck, where no marks were to be felt or seen. “How?”

“My saliva has antiseptics that numb the site, and seal the skin instantly after I’m done. No marks, no pain.” He said this grimly, playing with Sherlock’s hair as he rolled to his side to face the older man.

“I love you, John, and you really are going nowhere. Not for a very long time.”  
“I hope not,” John added, tilting his head a bit to press a kiss to the younger man’s temple.   


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft may or may not be worth the murder charges

John lay there, half-pressed under Sherlock’s warm body as he lay on his back. The detective had John’s left arm under his neck, his back burrowed into John’s left side as he half-spooned the taller man. The doctor sighed contentedly and turned to cuddle more appropriately, curving his arm up and running his finger through the curls that draped down over Sherlock’s forehead.

 _Fair-haired,_ he thought. He’d never really gotten the concept of Sherlock’s name, but perhaps he was born with blonde hair? It seemed unlikely, given his brother’s dark auburn and quite straight hair, but it was possible that he’d been born blonde and it had changed. Maybe they’d named Sherlock that because he clearly had a different parentage than Mycroft? Who knows? John was too at ease to bother waking up his partner to find out at the moment. He tangled his fingers back into the curls a bit more, earning a gentle head-nudge from the sleeping human and a backward-burrow into his stomach. He smiled and let his eyes slide shut, ignoring the fact that he was nowhere near tired.

After all, it was the middle of the night.

A few minutes later, giving up on the pretense of being as human as his “i-try-not-to-be-human-as-,much-as-possible boyfriend, John carefully snaked his arm out from under Sherlock’s head and went for the bathroom, tidying up a bit from their last romp before donning a dressing gown and padding out into the kitchen for some tea. A good warm belly may let him drift off for a few hours, he mused.

As the old Hobbs was boiling away, John heard the tell-tale creak of the third stair leading up to their flat. Mycroft was the only one who’d come by unannounced, no matter the hour, and John sniffed the air lightly to see if he was correct. Dust…whatever animal Sherlock was eviscerating this week…Demerol, formaldehyde, codeine, and there…human (that was not covered up by vampire) scent. John straightened up and went toe sit in the parlor in his chair with his tea and wait out his brother in law.

He only waited about a minute before the slow-moving brother came into view, clearly unaware that John was already waiting him out.

“Evening, Mycroft,” he said once the older man got fully into the flat. He didn’t jump, but straightened quite sharply before nodding and smiling at John like he wasn’t surprised a bit. John still picked up on the trace of adrenaline coursing through his veins. “What can I do for you? Sherlock is actually asleep, so you are not going to wake him up. Unless it really can’t wait till morning?” John set down his tea and waited, hands on his lap, non-threatening. He’d gotten too good at this.

“Oh, yes well as it so happens, Dr. Watson I don’t need my brother. I was in fact, looking for your…assistance?” he ended mysteriously and moved to sit in Sherlock’s chair.  John watched like a hawk but kept his irritation to a boiling low, wanting nothing more than to throw the pretentious git out on the street. It was 2am, for Christ’s sake!

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he asked, keeping his tone light. The elder Holmes still caught the hint of irritation and maintained his best shit-eating grin; his best weapon in governmental negotiations.

“I am sure you know by now that the flat is bugged. I heard a very…interesting conversation this evening, and would like to discuss the parameters with you,” he started, getting right to the point. John appreciated this, but he felt a rage rip through him at his forgetfulness. Of course the damn flat was bugged, look at who he was living with! The biggest security leak in the world with the security man himself as his brother and fervent watchdog. Good lord.  John rolled his eyes and pitched forward a bit.

“So then who is listening right now?” he asked. Mycroft could barely give himself his own trust most days, why on earth would he trust John enough to—

“No-one. I turned it off as I came in,” Mycroft shocked the doctor, turning his mobile around for John to see the proof.

“Well then.” John sat back, folding his hands again. “Again I ask, what can I help you with?”

“I would very much like a blood sample, if I may. I’m fascinated, but as I’m sure you understand, over-cautious about my little brother living with some…one like you,” he caught himself before saying _something_. John twitched, trying to reign in the fire.

“And what would you do with this sample?” John asked. He knew very well that if he gave it over, Mycroft probably had the resources and the mindset to find a way to kill him. After all, Baskerville was essentially his little lab-set.

“I want to see what’s in your blood, how it works. The same as my brother would do, you understand?” Mycroft gave him another imperious grin. John almost punched him in the face as he stood, politely ushering Mycroft out the door and down to the street-door.

“Then you can wait for Sherlock to give you the analysis. I’m sure he’s already trying to find a way to prick my arm in my sleep,” John replied. He shut the door in the elder Holmes’ face and stalked back up the stairs, locking all the doors and breaking the key he slipped from Mycroft’s pocket in half between his fingers.

No more pesky brother-in-laws.

John failed to notice the tiny device that the other man had left on the floor under his red chair as he padded back into the bedroom and curled in next to Sherlock.

~0~0~

The younger man woke around 9am, stretching back against John’s body as he tested each muscle and writhed a bit to turn around. John was asleep, and stayed as such as the sun beat down on his face a bit form the window. Sherlock smiled and went to close the shade, drawing them tightly shut before crawling back into the bed and under the covers. John was blissfully on his back, as per usual, arms akimbo around his head on which Sherlock’s had also been resting. He nosed up John’s leg under the duvet, creeping up from the foot of the bed to his boyfriend’s crotch where a lovely cock was waiting for him, as asleep as its main member was.

Well that just had to be dealt with, didn’t it?

Sherlock smirked and opened his mouth, carefully sucking the head in and re-positioning so that he was on his belly between John’s legs. He used his right hand to grip the base and make the flaccid target remain upright until it would do so of its own accord. The detective sucked back, taking the whole length in his mouth and swallowed several times, kneading the head with his tonsils until John stirred, his cock waking up and hardening in his lover’s mouth quite nicely. A little groan escaped his mouth as John woke, tugging the duvet up so he could see a mop of wild bed-head black curls bobbing slowly over his waking erection.

“Oh,” he sighed, reaching a hand down to tousle those locks and tug a bit, eliciting a slight yelp from Sherlock. The sound caused a nice little vibration around his cock and made John groan anew. The good doctor thrust up a bit, following that receding mouth insistently until Sherlock snorted and held his hips down with large hands.

Sherlock pulled back, letting John’s cock go with a wet pop as he palmed the nice erection. The duvet shifted as he crawled up, seating himself on his lover’s lap and ducked down for a kiss.

“Did you wake me up just for my cock?” John teased, wiggling a bit as he got comfortable for a good ride. Sherlock smirked and sat back, reaching over to the bedside table where balanced a little nearly-empty bottle of KY. He shook it thoughtfully and returned to his “seat”. “John, we need to get more lube today. You should go out to Tesco after we clean up and get the shopping. Use my card,” the detective mused, emptying the last of the bottle’s contents on his fingers and reaching behind himself. John didn’t even mind being told what to do today, between last night’s weird discussions with the Holmeses and watching his boyfriend prep himself on his lap, he was more than prepared to just do as he was told to get to the end they both wanted.

Sherlock lined up his cock-seeking-arse with John’s rather nice arse-seeking-cock and sank down, impaling himself slowly but surely with a harsh shout from the man beneath him as he bottomed out. The younger man stilled, hands clenching a bit on his thighs as he got used to the sensation of being filled so quickly. Two fingers was rarely enough to prep for a thick cock like John’s, and with him having topped last night he wasn’t the one still a bit loose and wet. Sherlock straightened his back a bit as he felt cold hands grip his hip bones and tug. John was willing him to move, just a little. He complied, letting the vampire tug and push for a few moments before he gathered himself enough to grip the headboard with both hands and use it as leverage to really drive down, finding that sweet spot by accident and nearly whiting out with the sharp pain-pleasure of it all.

John moaned loudly, his grip on Sherlock’s waist becoming tighter, sure to bruise, but he didn’t care and he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t either.

Sherlock came first with a shout, relishing how John’s canines scraped against the thin skin at his wrist as he shuddered to a pause, emptying himself on John’s chest impressively. John held tight to his wrist with one hand and flipped them with the other, driving into Sherlock’s body hard a few times as he nuzzled at his throat. Sherlock smirked and turned his head, offering his neck to John who hesitated. Should he? No….Was he going to? ...Yes. John opened up and sank his teeth in, sucking back the flow of hot blood that rushed into his mouth quickly, sealing up the bite with a smooth lave of his tongue. He stilled inside Sherlock, his orgasm riding out slowly with the burn of blood on his tongue.

~0~0~

“Do you need anything specific, Sherlock?” John asked, shrugging into his coat and hollering across the flat at the man still in the shower. He plucked the sleek black credit card out of his partner’s wallet and pushed it into his own, ready to make a Tesco run for groceries and lubricant. John rolled his eyes to the ceiling and waited. “Things I can get at _Tesco_!” he reminded the younger man. He was emphatically _not_ going to the morgue as well. The detective could go do that himself! When he got a surly No in reply, the doctor hurried down the stairs and out into the light rain of the afternoon. He decided he’d walk the couple of blocks, the rain wasn’t bad enough to waste the money there on a cab when he’d surely need one back.

John did the shopping as usual, filling his little basket with pasta, beans, the usual. PG tips…they were almost out, and of course, milk. Ooh…digestives. He threw those in as well. When Sherlock was paying, John got a lot less picky on what he brought home. He went and dug around the dairy area for some cheese sticks. He could get those into Sherlock easier than any other real food, and they were good in protein, so why not? Next he went for lube. He always felt like a weirdo looking at the selections, but hey…he could be any guy looking to spice it up, right? Right. John stood in front of the wall of condoms and lubes and thought. It had to be KY…it was just better that way. They both rather liked the heated one, but he preferred the tingly one. Sherlock’s card burned a hole in his wallet. He picked up one of each and went to check out.

John strode out onto the road, laden with plastic bags and ready to go home for a nice cuppa and maybe some Top Gear when a black car pulled up alongside him. The back window rolled down and Mycroft beckoned to him from a good five meters away. John stood still. Should he get in, with the mild threat Myc had given him last night, or waste the money on a cab when he had a perfectly good brother in law he could use for that?  John decided to get in.

“John, I do want to apologize for being a bit…hostile. Or at least forward last night,” Mycroft started, shifting in his seat the way Sherlock did when he had to apologize for something unpleasant that he really didn’t think was wrong. John rolled his eyes and waited for the car to turn around and head back up Baker Street. When it didn’t his hackles rose a bit. Mycroft had never given him cause for alarm, not really before. Plus, he was fairly certain that he could just beat his way out either way, so he willed his heart to stop breaking his ribs and sat back, bags around his ankles.

“It’s all right. Where are we going?” he asked, a bit hopeful. Mycroft smiled thinly at him and sat back as well, looking out his window. Too late, John realized that he had his window cracked a bit still, and a noxious gas filled the compartment.

He was out in a matter of seconds. Mycroft looked down at him plainly, running a thumb over his phone screen before texting Sherlock.

 _I’ve got John. No worries, he’ll be back in a few days, when we’re done with him. –MH._     


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft sticks his nose in everyone's business!

John awoke slowly, his eyes bleary and unfocused. His first thought was, as usual, _Sherlock?_ His second was to test his bonds once he scented the room and found no trace of that particular Holmes. However, based on his heat signal of the room, he could tell that Mycroft sat about ten feet off to the left, and clearly was not afraid. John must be held down pretty good. He shifted his weight minutely, and sure enough, he was held fast. On top of whatever drug he still had coursing through his veins, he was going nowhere fast. His heart may have beat just a little bit faster at the idea that he may not see Sherlock again.

“John?” Mycroft asked, taking a small step forward. He looked curiously at his captive, not quite sure how to go forward. He wanted a small blood sample, but so far any of the things they had tried sticking into the doctor thus far had been broken off. His skin was simply too thick.

That begged the question, how (or with what) did he get shot in battle? No Holmes could leave a question like that unanswered.

John grunted at him from beneath the river of downers his consciousness was swimming in. Mycroft took another step closer. “John we are merely trying to get a small blood sample, to test it, just to see how you differ, of course. Can you tell us how to pierce your skin?” he was back to the diplomat now, and the good doctor wished he knew precisely how much they had dosed him with so he could get a time fix on sinking his fangs into his meaty brother-in-law’s neck. No such luck.

“Can’t,” he croaked, shaking his lead lightly. Luckily, that was not held down like his arms, chest, thighs and shins were. Just a thick collar round his neck, the D-ring fastened to the cool steel under his back. He was in Baskerville, he could scent the place, just like he remembered. Of course Mycroft would have brought him here. Where else could hold something like him?

“There is nothing then, that can pierce your skin?” the older brother asked, his frustration peaking. It was easy to side-swipe John, he was trusting enough. Getting the doctor away from Sherlock had been a massive test in patience, however, and he did not fancy trying to get through that again. Now they would be on their guard. “John, let me make this easy for you. You are not leaving, until I get a few drops of blood, and you are not going to see my brother ever again if you prove to be a threat to any person here. Do you understand?” he asked, a bit too saccharine for John’s liking. He nodded once.

“Only I can, you’ll need to give me a hand,” he said, managing to mumble out the words over a thick tongue. Blast these drugs! He could think just fine now, why wasn’t it wearing off of his body yet?

“IT is a macro-blend of the drug you and Sherlock came across during the Baskerville case. Of course, here we’ve had to amplify it a bit and add several narcotics to keep _you_ down, a few elephant tranquilizers, and the like. But you’ll be free of it soon enough, Doctor Watson. And then you can go back to Sherlock, to Baker Street. _If you behave_. Now, tell me how to pierce your skin _without_ letting you go. I know _something_ can, you’ve been wounded in battle. What caused the bullet wound? Obviously it pierced your skin effectively enough?”

John hesitated. He couldn’t give Mycroft, the most dramatic and cunning person in the room, the only way to kill him. That was pure suicide. Maybe, _MAYBE_ one day he’d trust Sherlock with that information, but that was not today, and hopefully it would not be for a good long while. “I dunno, Mycroft, maybe a stick got me in the explosion. The whole ‘wooden stake trick’ right?” if this was a waiting game for the drugs to wear off so he could snap these steel bonds, then so be it. He had all the time in the world.

Only one thing. Mycroft looked down at his watch a few times, then at his phone. A slow smirk came across his face. “Perfect timing, brother,” he noted, and then left the room.

Not too long after, maybe a couple minutes, a few men in white haz-mat suits (utterly unnecessary, in John’s opinion) came and rolled his table that he was strapped to into another room. Once the door was locked and his windows effectively barred, no chance of escape, a buzzing sound was made and his ties snapped off, falling loose by his sides. All that was left were cuffs around his wrists and ankles. He still had on clothes, thankfully enough, so he wasn’t cold, but the room had a definite draft. He wandered the perimeter of the room curiously, checking all the nooks and crannies. All he found was one tiny air shaft high on one wall, and the steel (reinforced, eight inches thick, even he’d have a field day getting through without the drugs). There was also one intercom with a camera on the wall next to the air vent. No window, nothing by which to pass the time. Fantastic.

John settled down on the floor, kicking the gurney to one side of his holding cell. About an hour after he was locked in, a crackling came over the intercom, and he heard the small camera whir to focus on him.  John looked up at it, expectantly.

“Are you hungry John?” came the ever-so-pleasant voice of his favorite soon-to-be-ex-family member. He shook his head. “Sherlock knows you are here, he says that he is on his way. Why don’t we save him the trouble of getting shot at trying to get in here and you just give me what I want?” John sighed. What could he do with John’s blood? The doctor held up a finger at the camera, intent on thinking it through. “You have five minutes before I turn on the gas and poke you with sharp objects until I figure it out.” 

A cold chill swept over John. Sherlock knew that his brother had him, and he knew it was here, at Baskerville. If he took a train and then rented a car it would take a day at least. Could John hold on that long? Probably not, especially with aerated drugs filling his room, keeping his strength tamped down. He could refuse to breathe, that might work, for a little while, until he forgot or got too uncomfortable without his scent.

But what could Mycroft do with his blood? Make an army? Sure. Why not? What’s to stop him? Create a super-drug? Probably. John’s saliva could cure almost anything. He hadn’t tried it on cancer yet, but so far it had stacked up well against AIDS and a few other killer illnesses. How else could he feed so indiscriminately? What about a weapon? Could Mycroft use him to make a weapon? Only if you consider giving everyone in the world immortality and super strength, then yes. It would mean the end of the human race.

Then came the question he feared to ask; did Mycroft want the blood so he could change? Did he want the immortality, strength, and power?

Very likely, yes.

Then what could he, John, do? It wouldn’t take long for Mycroft to succumb to the legends and get himself a silver blade and stick him with it, John was certain. He probably already had one waiting in that line of shiny things he had mentioned waiting to poke at his useless body. John had to figure out how to give Mycroft regular blood, and fast. He had none left in his stomach. It was likely that they’d just test what blood he was given if he agreed to take some in, if he said he was hungry. They’d know fast if it was fake. It had to be his DNA, and it had to be as human as possible.

What if he bit his arm, and then spit as much as possible into the mess he gave them? Would his saliva destroy the vampiric DNA well enough by the time the checked it that it would look human? Maybe…. But he now had 25 paired chromosomes, not 23. Mycroft would not miss that, not ever.

John found himself half-wishing that he’d never met Sherlock, and then took it back immediately. How could he wish that? He was the only thing keeping him from giving in right now. If he was out there, floating on the ether for this several hundred years, alone and without a friend or a love in the world, what would he care if he destroyed it? But Sherlock…he had to keep the world at least relatively safe for him, right?

“Piss off, Mycroft.”    


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's Sherlock's turn to get territorial.

Sherlock woke with a start. He had fallen asleep on the sofa after John drifted out to the shops, and his body found it strange that he hadn't woken up yet to the pattering of little doctor feet in the kitchen. He got up and made a round of the flat to be sure. No John. How disappointing. Tesco must be expertly busy. He ignored the blue LED flash on his phone, indicating a text from his brother, and went to take a shower. He had all manner of bodily fluids on his at the moment, and it was getting gross, quickly.

As Sherlock showered, he replayed the night in his mind, reaching back to pull out the arse plug he had stuck in himself after John disappeared, hoping to jump his lover when he got home. But John was taking too long and his entrance was starting to get sore so he opted to sulk it out instead. Maybe John would just suck him off to get rid of this extra energy, he mused.

_Probably not. Better have a wank, he's just as likely to make me suck him off and then fall asleep._

Wishful thinking.

The detective tugged his erection and fingered his throat delicately, remembering the sharp puncture, the pinch of John's teeth sinking into his hot flesh before a cool numbing feeling washed over, relief carried by the bactine in John's saliva. He really must get a swab and test it. Maybe when John got home, if he was very good, the doctor would let him get a sample.

Great, now his erection was gone, thinking too much about experimenting on his lover in entirely  _not_ sexy ways. Sherlock clanged off the shower and climbed out, drying his slender frame and sliding into just a pair of pajama trousers before walking back out into the flat.

Still no John? Sherlock picked up his phone.

"I've got John. No worries, he'll be back in a few days, when we're done with him." –MH

Sherlock grimaced, stilling at the shock for a fraction of a second before he realized what his brother meant. "Done with him"…Mycroft knew. He  _knew!_  What on earth could they do to John? What would they do while trying to find out what they  _could do_? He panicked. For once in his life, Sherlock well and truly panicked. He wasn't this scared at Bart's when he faced-off with Moriarty, nor when he was tricked by the Hound of Baskerville…

Baskerville.

That's where Mycroft would have taken his boyfriend. Think! Nowhere else made sense. A huge, strong, impenetrable medical facility, with unending supplies to designer drugs and tranquilizers. Without a second thought he went dashing into the room, throwing on jeans and the purple button down—it was on the floor, and he was pretty sure the jeans were John's, but he couldn't care less in this moment. Next, a phone charger and his credit card. He needed to rent a car.

 _Shit_. John had his card, he had gone shopping with it!

Right then. Stealing one of Mycroft's own cars seemed in order. "Steal my man, I'll steal your car." He muttered, stomping down and out of the flat, pocketing his wallet and mobile. Not that the value to be placed was remotely similar; John was simply priceless. In every way.

"No time to get sentimental!" the detective growled at himself, hailing a cab in the setting light of evening and heading off to the Diogenes Club.

Once hacked safely into Mycroft's office, Sherlock set about digging through drawers until he had wasted enough time. "Anthea" strode in, playing on her blackberry.

"Mr. Holmes, what can I help you find?" she asked. He ignored her, walking past the woman out the club and into the street once again. He went to the driver of the car and held out his hand.

"Give me the key, I am taking this car out to Baskerville to meet my brother." He waited. Behind him, Anthea nodded to the driver. Just as he suspected. Mycroft was expecting him to drive all the way out there instead of waiting patiently at home.

For once, Sherlock got nervous. Was that a good sign or not? Would that make things harder, more pressing for John? If he went out there right now? Or should he wait it out…no, of course not. There was no way he was waiting.

In a blink he was grabbing the key and taking off, spinning through traffic signals in an effort to make it to the highway and out into the countryside before morning.

"ARGH!" John cried, his back arching off the cold metal he was strapped to. They had gassed him about an hour after Mycroft announced that Sherlock was on his way. Leave it to that sodding man to get the other sodding man up in arms and ready to pick at the good doctor's flesh with anything pointy enough! Sherlock should have waited.

John was positively starving now. He had burnt up the few mouthfuls he had drained from Sherlock hours ago, and was running on nothing as of now, his adrenaline eating up the vapors that remained in his stomach as Mycroft's eerie hazmat-suited scientists stuck needles, silver, pickaxes, stakes, and anything else they could think of into the soft flesh of his belly. Nothing worked, as he had told them. He could pick the skin with a nail or a tooth, but they wouldn't let him free.

God knows what Mycroft'd do if he got ahold of the saliva. Probably find and trap other vamps to manufacture some all-curing vaccine until he found a way to make a synthetic? That wouldn't be bad…for humans. Vampires would die out with no sick to prey on. Most of the ones left were bottom feeders like him, killing off the sickly or unreasonably immoral. What would happen to his race then? Was it better for humanity to kill them off? And who the hell was he to make the decision? Yeah he was a doctor, not  _The Doctor,_  he wasn't cut out for this kind of tripe!

What harm could a little blood do? Maybe Mycroft really did just want to see it for himself. If he could bite his shoulder, suck out just a drop or two, then seal it back up, then there was no foul, right? John hoped so. He craned his neck and bit, just before they started at him with a blowtorch.

"Wait," the  _British Government_  called from his seat across the room. The scientists paused, blur flame nicking a few hairs off John's belly. They watched for a minute as they grew right back in, unscathed. He released the bite, letting them swab the site quickly before the good doctor licked the cut closed again. He sat back and waited.

Clinking was to be heard as the men gathered around a microscope to examine the slide, ooh's and ahh's to be had as they counted his chromosomes and looked at the strange cellular structure. John waited, sparing an ear for them and an ear for the doors to the hall, waiting on his long-legged counterpart to come storming in any moment.

"Interesting," Mycroft muttered. "Can you tell me how many more there are like you, John? I'm not asking for an attack, as I'm sure you've anticipated. I rather have no intention of ever seeing you in this building, nor any other…creature, for that matter. I want to know if we are safe, and how many bodies you personally account for a year, so that I can appropriately structure a population basis on that approximation. Can you give me these statistics?"

John sighed. Oh, what the hell? "There's probably a thousand or less of us left in Europe, I'd say less than ten thousand worldwide. We don't talk very often, mostly nomad types. It's hard to settle for this reason exactly." He tugged at his bonds vaguely. Mycroft gave him another shit-eating grin and waited, crossing his legs. John heaved a sigh and continued. "I kill maybe three a year, but only since I've been living with Sherlock. He requires more…energy than usual. Normal nomads would take maybe one a year, mostly just steal blood drive bags or a quick mouthful off a bar pick-up here and there. Nothing to really off-set the population by any large degree. That's the point," he finished. Mycroft began to notice that the doctor had paled quite a bit, he must be getting…hungry.

"If I let you go, will you kill anyone here, or do I need to take you all the way back into London? I can lock you up until Sherlock gets here. Have you fed off him before?" John nodded a bit weekly. He tried to buck up some more energy, but was finding it more difficult by the minute. The drug cocktail was starting to affect his empty stomach.

"I have a few times, just a mouthful here or there. Not a full meal; that would weaken him. I could kill him, to be honest. I'd rather you let me go so I can find a homeless person in town or something. Someone no one would miss." Mycroft nodded.

"I'll text Sherlock and tell him that I've let you go, then. You will not be a danger?" he warned, masking it as a question. John shook his head.

"I'll be right as rain soon. I'm old enough to keep my wits about me, even when starved." That gave the older Holmes pause as he leaned in to remove John's cuffs.

"How old are you, John?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John survives interrogation. bit o' angst and terror at the end, sorry.   
> i'm not sorry.

The doctor bit his tongue on the lie. No matter how old he was, or how old he got, there was no way he could control himself when he got this…desperate. It hadn't been this bad in a while. Like, 500 years. His fingers were twitching, jaw clenching with the need to have soft flesh clamped between his gnashing teeth.

John waited, eyeing Mycroft as the older man sat and thought. He had just admitted his age. The last turn of the century made it…1100 years, approximately. He sort of quit counting after the third century of no ageing. Now he just kept tabs every hundred years, maybe every decade if he had a good thing going. Okay, he was 1114, Sherlock's compulsive nature had made him sit and think about it a few years ago. It was a day when the younger detective was musing over their age differences and whether that or the years since army fitness had caused him to lose his breath after chasing a criminal across Soho, Chinatown, and full on back to Leicester Square. Yeah, it was  _age_  he thought. Never mind the drive he had to sink his teeth into the perp's neck after burning that much energy!

Anyway, there was the elder Holmes, reaching down to unbuckle John's ankle straps and then his wrists, helping the doctor off the metal table. "The nearest town is about four kilometers east, if you don't remember." He supplied the information, and John tried to pay attention as he was walked out, he really did, but the drive was making him insane now. The instinct was boiling under his skin, saliva pooling in his mouth with the need to bite. It was dangerous for him to get this hungry.

Mycroft opened the final door and John took off, flitting through the yard and out over the gate as he tore his way to the nearest town. A few sets of headlights caught his attention before he let the vampire take over, running almost entirely on instinct. His eyes were turning red with the need for a good, deep draught. His mind vaguely turned to Sherlock before he reached the outskirt of town. He slowed his pace to "normal," walking into the small village that they'd been to before, and into the doors of the small pub run by the gay couple.

Yes, his was indeed "a snorer" now. Now that Sherlock  _was_  his. John turned his mind back to finding the most drunk person he could and dragging them out of here fast. His fingers were clenching uncontrollably now.

Bellied up to the bar were four men, all drinking heavily, but none so heavily as the couple in the corner, leaning into each other with a near-empty bottle of scotch between them and two sloshy, tipping decanters. They were co-workers, the Sherlock-trained half of his mind told him. Not  _together,_ important factor for him. He could never split up a couple. He imagined Sherlock being torn from his grasp and his heart skipped a beat.

That could never happen. Ever.

John sighed and went outside, intent on finding someone walking on the street to suck into an alley. No one in the pub was drunk enough to be dragged off by a bloke they just met. People in the street were more unawares, particularly in a town this small.

He caught the scent of someone delicious. John perked up and let the vampire release fully, following the strand of disturbed air until he found himself back out on the road. He saw red again, shifting down into a full crouch as he ran, chasing in the dust of a car on the road, headed west.

Sherlock was passing the village, still speeding as much as he could. He had a few more kilometers to go, leaving a dust trail in his wake as the back tires of his stolen ride slid in the loose gravel on a sharp curve. Mycroft had better be waiting for him. If that bastard, that  _absolute bastard,_  thought he was going to get away with stealing  _his John_ , he had another thing coming for him.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and stomped a little more on the gas pedal when something caught his sight. A movement out of the corner of his eye, in the rear-view mirror. He flicked his cigarette out the window and got a better look, easing up on the gas pedal. He slowed to stop, not really willing to, but John could wait an extra second for him. He was curious, and curiosity always,  _always_  gets the better of a Holmes.

The detective squinted into the dark, craning his neck back with an arm hooked over the passenger seat, looking out the back window. It was a bit difficult in the dark with the blacked-out windows, but he thought he saw a person walking toward the car. Once again curious, he reached for the handle, pale eyes narrowing.

Only to have the door wrenched open and to be pulled bodily from the car. The person threw his against the frame, pressing his body into Sherlock's before he could even cry out. He barely had a second to catch the man's face in the glare of the car's inside lights.

It was John.

"John! JOHN! Stop, it's me! It's sherl—please—!" he cried out, trying to shove the doctor away before a set of fangs sank into his neck. He felt the numbing pull of blood rushing out of his system, making weak attempts to shove John off of him turned futile as he got weaker and weaker.

John knelt over his victim's form, clutching the fighting figure to him tightly. They had no means of escape. The taste was exquisite, something so familiar, something he loved. He chanced an inhale, the vampire getting abated as he ingested nearly three pints already. The victim was losing consciousness, laying limp in his arms now, all fight gone out of him.

Oh God…oh god, oh god, oh god! No. Not Sherlock…. John let go of the body, ripping his teeth off the soft, pale neck, letting the body sink down to the gravel road.

His love, his reason for living. He had crushed it, his white knight, laying broken in the dirt at his knees.

What had he done?!

"Sherlock?" John whispered, fingers drifting forward to tug on a curl, matted to his partner's pale forehead with sweat. He was clammy. Too much blood loss, but still breathing.

Doctor mode kicked in, a moment too late. A swift scent told him that Sherlock had barely enough blood left in him to keep his organs going, but he wouldn't be gaining consciousness anytime soon. Right. Get him to Baskerville. Surely they'd have blood pouches available, testing or some tripe. Or he could fashion a blood transfusion out of his brother's (hopefully matching type) if he had to. He was NOT losing his Sherlock. Not again, and certainly not because of something he had done.

John scooped up his love and ran. He well and truly ran back to Baskerville, more desperate than ever.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we all want to kill Myc, right?

"For the last time, I do not care how you do it, but you will sit the hell down, shut the  _actual fuck_  UP and give your brother your blood or I will rip off a body part that oozes a bunch  _for you_  and do it myself. Got it?" John was fuming. That is, he was  _really_  fuming. Not since Sherlock jumped had he felt quite this level of anger well up inside of him. Mycroft actually  _sat down_  in surprise or terror, or both. John couldn't care less. He paced back and forth through the door-hole he had created when he came rushing back into the complex with Sherlock's lifeless form in one arm, wrenching each door completely out of the wall and leaving a warped, twisted metal chunk in his wake as he rushed to get information (blood type and then a blood  _donation_ ) out of the elder Holmes.

Sherlock now lay unconscious on a gurney, his pale skin glistening with sweat in the cold white lights. He was ice cold and clammy to touch. John was shaking, trying to keep his anger at himself under the current rate that he was feeling for Mycroft's sluggishness, but it wasn't working too well. He had the terrible urge to make sure Sherlock made it out alive and then move on.

He would never…would he?

A soft cough from Mycroft let him know that he was ready to begin, long thin arm outstretched, waiting for the needle. He'd get what he could take out of Mycroft, warm and fresh, and fill him up with old frozen bags, which he had to go search for next. John slid the thick extraction needle into Mycroft's arm, fully aware that there were ice-blue eyes fixed on his face as he did so. The elder Holmes was dying to ask him questions. John stood up and checked the line going into Sherlock's body.

"What will you do if this transfusion doesn't take?" Mycroft surprised him, asking the question John himself was trying to ignore as it rolled around inside his head. "Would you…change him?" John winced. " _Could_ you?"

"I don't want to have to make that choice, and I don't think I should be the one to make it. It would be the ultimate selfish act," he drifted off, taking a good sniff to make sure the blood was transferring. "But no, although I don't think I could actually live without him anymore. He would hate me for it, for a time. Possibly forever. And that would be so much worse than losing him now. It's by my hand either way, isn't it?" Mycroft nodded solemnly. John sighed and stepped away from the bed before disappearing down the corridor to find where they would store the blood pouches.

John found them a few rooms down, in a massive fridge that seemed to him more like a meat locker. He had sniffed them right out, following his nose despite the trouble that exact plan had recently caused. Never again, he chided himself. He'd never so much as lick Sherlock's skin again. The temptation was too much. It would be blood bags and strangers, the way it should have always been.

Suddenly, another wave of pain hit. Would Sherlock make him leave after this latest near-death experience? Probably. John's knees nearly buckled as he gathered bags of B-Positive blood in his arms. He couldn't even bear the thought of a life without Sherlock, let alone have the man send him away personally. Maybe he'd have to leave before that could happen. Save them both the trouble and the heartache. Deep in his heart John knew he could never leave, not really. Maybe he could move out, but he'd always be  _around_  Sherlock, always keeping an eye or an ear out for him, waiting in the shadows.

As one of his kind  _should only_  do. Stick to the shadows. Always. People get hurt if you don't play by the rules.

John straightened and walked back toward the room where the Holmes brothers were. Mycroft was watching John with measured eyes, waiting for something to happen undoubtedly.

"John," he started. The vampire could already hear the tiredness of his voice, the caution…and he hated it.

"Don't," he snapped. "Sherlock will be…fine. He has to be."

"John you  _know_  that three bags of blood and the bit I could give him will not be enough. You depleted too much. He won't wake up from this. The best you could do is hope to put him in a coma." John squeezed his eyes shut at the information, refusing to let it sink in.

No…Sherlock would be fine. He always was. He was the inhuman survivor, who put his body through enormous amounts of strain and lived and  _thrived_  against all odds. No sleep, food deprivation, dehydration, all in the name of science and utter laziness. Sherlock would survive because he  _had to._

Because John wouldn't make it without him.

Mycroft watched with intent as his plan unfolded, his arm stretched out with the blood in the clear plastic line. Luckily John was too worried to notice a pinch in the line just under Mycroft's hand, where his fingers closed off the circuit of life-giving aid to his little brother. He smiled and watched John prep the bagged blood, biding his time.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay so he's not totally the bad guy...still an arsehole tho

John fussed with the line that ran from the blood bag into Sherlock's arm, testing then re-testing its flow before fussing with Mycroft's once or twice. The elder Holmes let go of his clutch on it for the duration but proceeded to pinch it again shortly after the doctor sat down and waited.

Several hours passed in near-silence, with John only breaking the flow of quiet breathing by standing to release Mycroft from the needle when he felt that he'd been on long enough.

"Why isn't he waking?" John muttered, leaning over the prone body of his beloved and inhaling. He smelled the muddled mingling of the three different bloods in his system, swirling uselessly in collapsed veins. Sherlock was breathing, shallow and slow, barely taking in what was necessary to be kept alive. John shook his head. His training told him to just  _change_  the man, that life support was useless and only wasting valuable time. But his heart refused to give up.

"John, I think that this may be the time to discuss what I know you're avoiding. Maybe you need to…change him?" John shook his head adamantly.

"Anything but that," he whispered, choking back tears. Sherlock would never be able to forgive him.

"John, come sit, let me talk to you for a moment." The doctor gave pause but obeyed, coming to sit in the metal chair across from his brother in-law (for all intents and purposes) once again. Mycroft took a breath and sat back in his chair, shrugging back into his suit-jacket and folding his hands into his lap.

"If it were to save your life, do you think Sherlock would do the same thing? Because I think he would, and he may spend every day begging for your forgiveness, but he'd never regret it. I know you would do the same because you two are two halves of a whole, incomplete without the other. You waited long enough for him," he paused, peering over at a rather dumbstruck John. With no comment given, he continued. "You would have come to the decision yourself later on, after he grows old and you do not, and it becomes more evident to each of you that you could never live without the other. You  _will_  come to a point where you  _want_ to change him, John. Do not feel bad about  _needing_  to do it now. If anything he'll be ecstatic that he can run experiments on himself, rather than angry at the new lifestyle." John nodded, still a bit surprised. He'd gotten so used to being almost hated by Mycroft, or hating the man himself. This new...sentiment, it seemed even more creepy than his usual terrifying presence.

"So…you did this on purpose then?" John asked, starting to get angry. How could he—

"Don't be ridiculous John, there were far too many variables for me to plan it out in actuality. I knew you needed a push in the right direction, I didn't imagine that you'd nearly kill my little brother in the process of getting that shove, though. So, if you please, you  _do_  need to work on him soon, yes?"

"I suppose so," John stood and bent over Sherlock, checking his gums. Bone white. BP was about 42, extremely low, skin clammy and drenched in sweat. Yes, he needed to start the process. Soon. The closing of the metal door behind him signaled that Mycroft had left him in peace. Good; no one needed to see this.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's matted curls, swallowing hard. "I'm so sorry, my love. I never wanted this to have to happen." He bent and opened his mouth, sinking his fangs into the soft pliant flesh of Sherlock's long throat once more. For the last real time, he thought to himself.

Luckily, he didn't have long to go before Sherlock was drained completely. John heard the heart stammer to a halt and his boyfriend's lungs wheeze out the last of the air they held. The doctor straightened back up and cut his wrist with his teeth, holding the wound over Sherlock's mouth. After a few drops were drained into the younger man's mouth, he latched on and began to suck in earnest.

John let him nurse on his wrist for a few good minutes before pulling back. Now Sherlock had to push all humanity out of his system, any waste and excess food residue, before he would be fully changed over. The younger man wouldn't fully wake until sometime in the morning, when he'd voided his bowels and bladder for the last time, and the venom from John's blood had invaded every corner of his being.

John sat down in his chair and took hold of Sherlock's hand. This was going to be a long night.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's gonna be okay...shhhh. here have some Sherlock POV

SHERLOCK'S POV

Sherlock opened his eyes. The light was glaring, shining down on him on the exam table. He hurt, all over. Not a sharp pain, more of a fading throb. Like he'd fallen off a roof. Again. He stretched his limbs minutely, smelling John a few feet away.

Wait…smelling? He turned his head, seeking out the trace of warmth and scent that could only be his partner. John was nodding off on a chair next to the table where he'd been stretched out. A few needles poked in the detective's arms, and his neck felt as if it was on fire; what had happened? Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and thought.

Behind a swirl of new thoughts clouding his Mind Palace, he sensed that John had caught up to him and drank from him at some point last night. Not surprising, really, he was probably starving after Mycroft had kept him and did god knows what to him. Did his brother know now? Where was he? Sherlock sniffed at the air, curious. Where did this weird ability to smell people out come from? No sign of Mycroft, although something faintly familiar did come across in the bleached, sterile air. He had been here a few hours ago.

How on earth could he have known something like that?

Sherlock sighed and kept his eyes shut for now. He needed to think.

"Sherlock?" John jerked himself awake and walked over to the table, laying a hand on his lover's arm lightly. "How do you feel?" he asked, like he expected something weird to come out of the younger man's mouth. Sherlock's brows knitted together and he opened his eyes.

It was like he'd never even seen John before! His wrinkles, old sun-spots from the Arab desert, each color fleck in his dark blue irises, the way the bleaching white light from above highlighted the tips of his blonde eyelashes…Sherlock could see all of it. He sucked a breath in through his mouth and nose, marking the sterile notes in the air and the musk of something familiar (and yet not) on the back of his tongue, and began to sit up.

John jumped back lightly. Sherlock was standing next to him in less than a blink. The curiosity hitched across his young face showed that he still wasn't completely sure of the transformation. He wouldn't, really, until he'd hunted. John was almost sure. Unless he started asking questions. They'd get to that soon enough, the good doctor decided.

"John?" Sherlock asked, peering around the room before letting those unsettling pale eyes focus on the good doctor, standing a few feet away. He stretched out a long pale hand and John stepped forward, taking it in his own. Sherlock felt the differences in their skin temperatures had vanished. They felt the same now. His brow furrowed and he squeezed John's hand. A question quirked one side of his beautiful mouth upwards, but he held his tongue for now. The doctor winced and minutely pulled his hand back; Sherlock caught it out of the top of his eyes as he stared at their conjoined hands. So he was stronger than John? Only one way for that to happen…lucky for John that Sherlock was more morbidly fascinated than disturbed. Call it what you will, but it was a happy gift for them both in that moment. The younger man looked up at John finally, eyes boring into darker blue ones. John still hadn't let out the breath he'd sucked in three minutes ago. He was on-edge, waiting, terrified of Sherlock's reaction to the terribly selfish thing he'd done, despite Mycroft's assurances that there would be no hard feelings coming his way. He winced again as Sherlock began talking, unsure of himself for the first time in a good while.

"You changed me?" Sherlock asked, voice barely audible, even to John's ears in the low hum of the operating room. John tensed visibly, swallowing hard. Sherlock nodded and dropped his hand, taking a step back from his boyfriend and glancing at the length of the room. He flitted across and back, twice, before stopping with a light smile playing on his lips.

"I remember why you did it, John, I remember what happened on the road, as I was passing the village." John's eyes welled a bit with tears. Sherlock came closer, wrapping his long hands around the doctor's jaw, holding his face close to his own and coming in even closer. He scented along John's jaw, and the doctor stilled further. Sherlock was taking to the change remarkably well. He hadn't even complained about—

"When do I deal with the  _thirst_?" the detective breathed across his lover's lips, ghosting his own over them before John could answer. He delved a bit deeper, kissing John sweetly but firmly, holding him close, bowing his small body into his own in the center of the bright room. Sherlock inhaled. The scent of the man in front of him was delicious, but nowhere near as drawing as the human scents swirling in the HVAC vents. John pulled back and waited for Sherlock to release him before answering.

"I killed you, essentially. Mycroft gave you a bit of blood, and I gave you a few transfusions, but it wasn't enough. So I had to change you in order for you to…live," he finished lamely, scuffing his foot at the tile floor as if ashamed. Sherlock merely nodded at him as if to say "carry on" so John took a deep breath and began to explain the changes he'd experience. He thought back many years to his own changing, and recited.

"You'll not be digesting anything as a normal human would anymore. Everything essentially gets burned up, or you have to throw it back up later if it's big enough. Small things, snacks, you can usually do. Biscuits, tea…but heavy drinking, meals… you have to get them back out. To go with that, you'll be eliminating the leftovers of your humanity here soon, probably within the next few minutes. Then that's it, no more time in the loo for you. Except showers, I guess." John paused, and once again was nodded on by Sherlock. "You'll have to hunt, to feed every few days. If you keep a schedule like that, keep it light then you won't have to kill anyone. It makes it a lot easier to live in the city, to keep a permanent address. The longer you wait the more you have to take, and you'll wind up draining someone, like I did with you…" he trailed off, once again bashful. Sherlock strode over to him and pecked a kiss against his mouth once again.

"John, I'm not angry. What on earth did I have to be human for? I love you, and now I get to keep up with you," he murmured, looking down at their clasped hands in a strange moment of gentile sensitivity. John smiled just a bit and went on.

"You'll find that you prefer one blood type over another, and you can bite me if you want to, but you can't drink a lot from me or you'll get sick. Our blood is richer and also a tiny bit poisonous so it will hurt you more than help you. It's just mainly for eroticism that you'd do it, anyway," he laughed at Sherlock's quirked eyebrow.  _Yeah, I know,_  John thought. "And lastly, you are immortal in most ways; pretty much only another vamp can kill you, and there aren't many of us left. Only a few thousand worldwide, and most of them are in continental Europe and America. So that's the basics, do you have any questions?" John fiddled with Sherlock's long fingers as he waited, breathing shallow.

"Can I smoke now?" Sherlock asked. If he was immortal, then all of John's arguments about health went out the window. John smiled genuinely for the first time since Sherlock had woken and barked a laugh.

"Yeah, I suppose my arguments are void now, right?" Sherlock nodded and came a bit closer, pressing up against John in the huge space. He wanted to feel skin on his, this new skin with all its firing nerve endings…it would be so different!

"John," Sherlock sighed, a slight growl in the back of his throat bubbling up. John pulled back a bit to see Sherlock's face.

"Hmm?"  
"Can we go home now? I'm dying to get my skin against yours."

"You need to feed first, but yes. I think that is a very good idea, love."

They exited the room on Mycroft's mobile screen. He was already home, with Greg on the way over for dinner. Everything was perfectly according to plan. Pity that it took a kidnapping for John to get in gear and give Sherlock what he wanted. Permanence and love, forever, in the eyes of his beloved doctor.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John teaching Sherlock how to hunt. and how to have crazy vampire sex. have fun!

“Okay, now, close your eyes.” John peered around a corner at Sherlock’s intended victim. He wasn’t particularly starved, so John hoped that this person would get away alive. He kept his doubts silent. Sherlock was nervous beside him, the anxiety thrumming under his skin. He rolled his eyes before closing them.

“Why do I close them, John?” he asked, trying to sound as irritated as possible despite the fact that he was quite excited. For some reason, he was the exact opposite of repulsed by the fact that he was about to possibly kill another person. John could sense it and got a bit worried that he’d literally created a monster.

“You need to scent him, run on instinct alone, and your nose will carry you there, let you do what you need to do. You will be able to feel it before he dies, so just stop yourself when you start to feel his breathing slow.” Sherlock nodded and twitched, ready to get going already. He was aching to get John into bed after how long it had been. After all, he had a practically brand-new body to try out! New nerves, new reactionary speeds…it was going to be so much fun. The back part of his mind hoped that poor Mrs. Hudson was out for the night.

John finally whispered the go-ahead, and pressed back against the wall of the alley to let Sherlock past. The younger man slid by him like a ghost and twisted down the narrow street ahead, stealing up behind the victim in dead silence. The man felt something come up fast behind him, despite not hearing a thing, and Sherlock attacked, wrapping long thin fingers around his neck with one hand and bowing the man’s body to his long frame with the other. John watched, half in awe of the other man as he watched him gracefully feed without spilling a drop on his expensive suit in the process.

Sherlock drank, sucking back hard on the man’s skin until he felt, as John said, the man’s heart and breathing rates slow to a steady but obviously unconscious rhythm. He detached his mouth, giving the skin a quick sweep of pale tongue as he remembered John doing on his before, in order to seal up the bite. The man sank to the ground gently, with Sherlock propping him up on the wall to doze off his state.

The younger man came trotting back to John with a faint smile on his face. He wiped a bit at the corner of his mouth, as if he felt something there, and paused in front of John. “Well?” he asked, expectant.

John smiled in return and reached out for him. “Think you can beat me back to the flat?” he asked, feeling playful after watching Sherlock pass his first test with flying colors. A glint shone in the detective’s eye and he took off without a warning, a blur to John as he stood still for a fraction of a second to laugh.

John caught up after a few seconds, and they battled it out for the last few blocks to 221 Baker Street. John stopped faster, being that he knew how, where Sherlock nearly put a hole in the stone side of the building by running into it. He bounced back off the wall with a giggle, causing John to have quite a hard time getting the key into the keyhole, he was laughing so hard. Mrs. Hudson came running out in her nighty to see what the loud bang had been.

“Oh, Sherlock, what on earth have you done now?” she crowed, opening the door for the boys as they slid by her into the flat.

“Um, nothing, Mrs. Hudson. Just…I hit the wall. Sorry,” he mumbled as he ran up the stairs backward. He was trying to walk, but to a human it would look more like running…to him he was going incredibly slowly. John was still next to her in the foyer.

“Come along, John!” he cried and ran up to the third floor. The more distance they could put between themselves and Mrs. Hudson’s bedroom, the better, he thought. John smiled and bid goodnight to Mrs. H and followed his partner up the stairwell.

John found a few articles of clothing on the landing to the main level of the flat. His Belstaff and shoes were there, and his belt. Next the doctor found his boyfriend’s socks, and his suit jacket. On the final stairwell was his trousers and Sherlock’s button-down was drifting through the door to John’s room. The doctor pushed it aside with his foot and shut the door, slinking over to the bed while undressing himself. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but the older man could feel him in the room. With their senses attuned to each other, Sherlock was holding his breath so that he could have a better chance of sneaking up on John.

He made his move a split second too soon, landing himself and John on the edge of the bed as the doctor was stooped to push down his trousers to join his shirts and shoes on the floor. Sherlock quickly reconsidered his movement and decided to take his chance with John half-bowed over the bed to grope him a bit, sliding his front teeth down the top of John’s spine, causing goose bumps to erupt across the lightly tanned skin. He wrapped long arms around John’s wriggly waist, turning him gently and pushing up so that they crawled up onto the bed, leaving Sherlock on top. He growled in the back of his throat, quiet and low, but it still made John’s pupils dilate further. His hands gripped Sherlock’s sides a bit tighter, a grasp that would bruise a human’s skin, but only spurred Sherlock on further.

“John, will I hurt you if I…?” he trailed off, indicating that he wanted to top but was a bit nervous to. He was temporarily stronger, after all. John smiled against his mouth and huffed.

“Probably, if you let yourself get carried away. Just mind yourself and you can,” he murmured, gripping Sherlock’s chin to guide their mouths back together. He could sense Sherlock’s hesitance and rolled them so that he was straddling narrow hips in the center of the bed. The younger man sank into the mattress as John slid off him, dragging his grey briefs down with his teeth with a growl of approval when his partner’s aching member sprang free. Sherlock quickly helped kick off his pants and tow them onto the floor, reaching into the open drawer of the bedside table for their lube. He found none.

The detective broke off the kiss that John had pinned him with to prop up, digging in the drawer a bit deeper.

“Love you used the last of it before I got kidnapped, remember? I was going to the store to get some…” John reminded Sherlock. The younger man growled and slammed the drawer shut, maybe with a bit too much force, because the wood splintered. He looked immediately remorseful and looked back at John, open-mouthed. The doctor gave him a stern look but relented once Sherlock changed their position so that his long pale legs were wrapped around John’s hips.

“If we don’t have any lube, I’d rather not, that’s two risks of hurting you, and frankly, John I’d…I’d just rather not.” He looked so concerned that John had to laugh, just a little, but he let up, easing Sherlock’s thighs up to his chest and wrapping a long hand under each knee. “Oh, John, Please,” he groaned, biting his bottom lip as John teased hot breath over his lover’s straining erection. He eased out his tongue and trailed it down the tumescent length before ghosting over his bollocks and lying flat on his belly below Sherlock’s body.

If there was one thing that the boys of Baker Street got down to as often as possible, and certainly participated more voraciously in after that night, it was rimming. John used to love nothing more than eating a girl out before he had met Sherlock, and his appetite only got worse the more that he found himself sinking between those beautifully muscled arse cheeks. Sherlock writhed against his mouth, grinding back as much as he could to chase down that slippery tongue as John fluttered it over his hole teasingly. In a rapid twist of motion, John grabbed his bony hips and flipped Sherlock onto his belly, pinning his hips down with hands and his own knees over Sherlock’s against the bed, effectively trapping the younger man to where he could barely even grind against the covers.

The doctor re-buried his face between those pert cheeks, wrenching a harsh moan of approval out of the man beneath him. Sherlock tried to drive into the duvet for friction, but was held fast by the weight of the older man on his pelvis. He whimpered, hoping to get some attention elsewhere, but in the same breath he was rutting backward into John’s face even more, chasing that wet heat as John worked to open him up gently in the absence of lubricant.

Eventually John let up on his hips, and Sherlock shot up onto hands and knees, turning to push John back onto the mattress on his back. With a quick courtesy lick to slick up his cock, he straddled John’s hips and sank down the first few inches effortlessly. When his body gave a bit of resistance, John made him pause before letting the younger man press down further until he felt John’s bollocks pressing against him. John groaned and gripped his bony hips hard, encouraging movement.

“Oh, God, Sherlock,” he moaned, thrusting up a bit when Sherlock moved, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Jo—John!” he cried, nails scratching down John’s front as he rode out his fantasy, controlling the depth as much as possible as he tried to get more and more of John’s girth as he clenched around him, milking his boyfriend for all he was worth. John stilled beneath him, shuddering as he came hard, pulling his head to the side to bare his neck to Sherlock as he bent down, bracing his arms on either side of the good doctor’s head. He nuzzled briefly, crying out as John continued to thrust up into him through his own orgasm. Sherlock whimpered loudly as he felt John’s thick blood gush into his mouth. His last thought before he came was that John had been right—the taste was much more rich than human blood.       


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a few months down the road...

_So there’s…um…kind of blood play here. But duh, because it’s about vamps, so get used to it!_

Sherlock straightened from over the body he was inspecting with—what to anyone else would appear to be—a grimace hitched across his features. John could still see the strain in his face, an added wrinkle around his mouth that no one else would notice. Being around this much blood was still, even after so many months of strict dieting and monitoring by John, bothering him a bit. John knew he was in for a trip later today. But still, there was something to be said for his amount of control so early in his transformation. It spoke wonders of Sherlock’s self-control as a person already. John smiled a wrinkly smile and waited by the crime-scene tape as usual for his beloved to tell Lestrade off and stalk over, hungry and irritable.

For once, Sherlock’s appetite was always a distraction. And it was something he could not control by starving himself. It _had_ to be sated or people that he’d normally try to save would be hurt.

“The man was shot and then dismembered, obviously by a relative. There is no sign of struggle so he had to either have been heavily drugged or trusted the person. The death was quick, one bullet to the head. Didn’t even see it coming. Whoever it was wanted them _gone_ signaling that they wanted money or something valuable out of having the person out of their life. Look for a younger relative, my opinion is that they’re a junkie or maybe just unemployed. In need of money, either way. They’ll be cashing in an heirloom or more likely, a life insurance policy, soon. Keep an eye out.” Lestrade nodded and scribbled some notes, waving Sherlock away as the detective was already departing; he was making a beeline for John.

They needed to get to St. Bart’s for blood bags. John knew that there was only one in the flat and that wouldn’t fill either of them.

“Bart’s?” he asked, sliding in beside Sherlock as the detective barreled past him, fitting his body in comfortably alongside the fluttering Belstaff.  

“No, the one at the flat will do,” he commented, whipping out a hand and catching a taxi immediately. Curse his magic.  John made a face but climbed in behind him. “Calm down, John. I have a plan for it that will, I hope, and I think, distract you at least momentarily from your thirst.” He tapped away at his phone after that, leaving John to daydream out the window for the few miles to their flat.

***

“OOOOOhhhhhhhhhh,” John moaned, sprawled wantonly across their bed. He was on his stomach with Sherlock between his thighs behind him, pressing soft kisses and sharp bites all down his spine, with ones peppered across each side like falling petals. He couldn’t predict where the next one would land, or whether it would be a bite or a kiss, and a minor jump came on the tails of each one regardless. Sherlock was smiling into his skin, enjoying the moment. He scraped his fangs lightly over John’s sacrum and crawled back up as the shudder coursed through the smaller man.

The bag of blood lay semi-forgotten on the bedside, but Sherlock reached for it now as he bit lightly into the side of his boyfriend’s neck, not puncturing, as he had retracted, but getting his attention all the same.

“John,” the younger man murmured against soft skin, rubbing his lips across the knot where John’s neck and spine met. The doctor shivered and turned his face sideways on the pillow to look at what Sherlock was doing. He’d bit into the bag in one corner—just a tiny pinprick to let the thick fluid drizzle out, and held it questioningly.

“Hmm?”

“If you’re amenable, John, I’d very much like to use half of this to rub all over you and lick it off. You may do what you like with the other half.” John tried to hide his snort of laughter in the pillow—because frankly, they had gotten past that insecure stage where laughter in the bedroom is a turn-off, and it was now instead taken as part of the game. Sherlock smiled and waited a second longer to see if there were any actual objections, and then proceeded to paint John’s lightly tanned skin with thin lines of the still-chilled blood.         

Tiny bastions of goose flesh marched obscenely over John’s skin, following the trails of the blood and then being fought back into line with the rest of his skin by a hot tongue laving over the bright lines. Hot breath ghosted over his already heated skin, and John felt himself getting harder by the second; with each swipe of that sharp, irresistibly talented tongue, John’s cock pulsed into the bed.

Sherlock trailed down each leg, up each arm, and flipped John over, using the blood sparingly, moaned as he nosed through the sparse hair on his lover’s compact but sturdy chest and finally, lapping some out of the hollow of John’s throat, brought his tinted lips up to meet the good doctor’s in a heated and rather starved kiss.

“Sher-lock,” he groaned, canting his hips up a bit to rub against Sherlock’s thigh invitingly. The detective quirked an eyebrow but said nothing, nipping at John’s bottom lip teasingly before reaching under the doctor’s pillow or the bottle of lube he’d stashed there earlier. There was nothing that needed to be said. He and John could read each other so well now that questions were hardly asked anymore. There was no need but _this one_. Sherlock sat back on his heels, handed over the _precisely_ half-empty bag of blood, and proceeded to slick up his fingers and work John open.

The doctor sucked down the nourishment quickly, trying to moan at the feelings he was having instead of the sweet taste hitting the back of his throat, cloaking the raw dryness with thick wet satisfaction. Sherlock smirked, reading between the lines of John’s face as it happened and gave a particularly cruel twist of fingers to John’s prostate, sending him near through the roof in shock.

Sherlock deemed his lover ready a few fingers and minutes later, having apparently become a pro at loosening his not-so-breakable-now lover up for his cock since his changing. He loomed over John, a wary but reverent emotion in place on his angelic features.

The change had been good for him, tightened his skin a bit, took maybe five years off. John had been alive too long, and his life had been tougher. He wasn’t nearly so flawless-looking. Sherlock leaned in and bit his pectoral hard at the thought, as he saw the concern float between John’s eyes, in that little wrinkle he got when something was bothering him. John flinched but looped his arms up around the younger man’s neck, drawing him in for a kiss.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock smirked and pressed a kiss to his doctor’s mouth.

Laying his forehead on the pillow next to John’s. He sank the head of his cock n John’s worked opening, pausing to let his adjust for a second before pressing on.

“I will love you forever, John Watson. Thank you.”   


End file.
